MARLENE ALWAYS HAD A PROBLEM
Marlene had moved onto Cedarbrook Lane believing the neighborhood existed to meet her personal standards.
Something was always wrong.
At Christmas, she came to my door because she disliked the little gnome decorations on my porch.
“They look cheap,” she said.
I stared at her.
“They’re Christmas decorations.”
“They lower the tone of the street.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I said:
“Thanks for letting me know.”
She left looking disappointed that I hadn’t argued.
A month later, my roses became the problem.
“You planted them on the wrong side.”
I looked at the flower bed.
“What?”
“Roses should be on the left side of a property.”
“According to who?”
Marlene looked genuinely offended by the question.
“It’s more orderly.”
I glanced at the roses.
“They seem happy.”
“Happy isn’t the point, Claire.”
She pointed toward them.
“Order is.”
That was Marlene.
Everything needed to be positioned, trimmed, quiet, and controlled.
And for a long time—
I let her behave that way.
After Steve died, I had no energy for neighborhood conflict.
Grief already took enough from me.
Raising four children alone took the rest.
So whenever Marlene complained, I nodded.
Smiled.
Apologized when I had nothing to apologize for.
I convinced myself keeping the peace was cheaper than fighting.
Then one of my daughters climbed out of the pool and noticed Marlene watching.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Is that lady mad again?”
I wrapped a towel around her.
“Don’t worry about her.”
“She always looks angry.”
I smiled.
“Some people carry around more frowns than other people.”
My daughter giggled.
“That doesn’t mean we have to carry them for her.”
She ran back toward her siblings.
But when I looked toward Marlene’s house again—
she was still there.
Watching.
